


Unveiling

by FushigiNoKuniNo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, i love a good tense conversation, let martin swear he probably needs to, this one is probably going to get murdered by canon in short order as well, you can read this as jonmartin or not imo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 11:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18410120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FushigiNoKuniNo/pseuds/FushigiNoKuniNo
Summary: “Jon, we’ve been over this.”“No, we haven’t,” Jon frowned more deeply, crossing his arms. “Not really. That’s the problem.”(Set after MAG133)





	Unveiling

**Author's Note:**

> I am...very much into the idea of Jon finally getting a grasp on how to appeal to people's self-interest to get them to do what he wants, even if it's taken him an age to get this far. 
> 
> Probably not the last time I will touch on any of the concepts I raise in this fic, but I wanted to write this conversation before Jonny comes along and punches my worldview in the face in 134.

Martin wasn’t meant to be here, of course. Peter wouldn’t be pleased—though, to be fair, little seemed to please Peter beyond other people’s misery. And the fact remained that he had few options if he wanted to get his hands on a statement these days. Melanie had become increasingly hostile, eventually refusing to speak to him in anything other than curses, and Basira was...up to something. He couldn’t afford to let her see what he was investigating, and that went double for Jon.

So he found himself sneaking into the Archives long past midnight, hoping against hope that he would find them all abed. He knew where to get the statement he needed—had re-filed it himself after the incident with the Flesh. He wouldn’t need to go into Archival Storage or Jon’s office, so assuming everyone was where they should be, he could get in and out without anyone being the wiser.

He opened the door, and was heartened by how little the aged hinges creaked. Letting out a quiet breath, he crept forward, toward the corner he knew held his prize. It was dark, but not so dark that he couldn’t see the outlines of the shelves, the desks, the...archivist on the floor, surrounded by a dozen—no, _dozens_ —of tape recorders.

_What the hell?_

Martin froze, but Jon didn’t move, or give any sign of having noticed him. Which, he realized, was probably because he was asleep. He certainly didn’t look comfortable, leaning back against one of the Archives’ cheap shelving units, head listing to one side. Nor did he look relaxed, or peaceful, or any other other way that sleeping people were meant to. But Martin knew he was asleep, and dreaming. For he had watched Jon dream many times, a few months and a lifetime ago.

Martin carefully let out the breath he was holding. It was...reassuring, to know that Jon still slept. And this was good. He could sneak past, find the statement he needed, and leave, all while keeping an eye out to make sure Jon didn’t wake up.

Naturally, no sooner did he complete this thought than did every single one of the tape players on the floor snap open with a resounding “click!”

Jon started awake.

“Martin…?”

Martin spared the tape recorders a glare. Surely that was cheating. He sighed.

“Hi, Jon. I… I was just leaving.” He’d have to come back later. Rethink this. Perhaps he could find a means of tricking one of the other staff into getting him the statement without tipping anyone off. He took a cautious step backward.

“Wha— _No!_ ” Jon’s eyes widened as he returned more fully to consciousness. Then, with a speed that Martin would later wonder whether was entirely natural, leapt up and bolted toward the door. Within moments, he had his back against it, thoroughly blocking the exit.

_Shit._

He had _thought_ that Jon had given up on him after their last conversation. Indeed, he had stopped finding him, as requested. The tape recorder had even disappeared from his desk. He had felt a pang of disappointment at that, initially, but managed to convince himself that it was for the best. The only way forward was away. From everything.

And now...this.

“Look, just… Just let me go,” he tried.

“No,” Jon repeated, and Martin felt the force of conviction behind the word as it resonated. This...wasn’t the Jon who had found him a few weeks ago, awkward and hesitant. There was a purpose to him now—one that Martin couldn’t read, but which he instinctively recoiled from.

He briefly considered making a break for it. He was larger than Jon, certainly, and he only needed to push him far enough out of the way to open the door and escape. The question was whether he could do it fast enough. Get away before Jon could—

“I’m not going to _ask_ you anything,” Jon said, frowning, “But I do need to talk to you.”

Jon couldn’t have known what he was thinking. More likely he’d simply gotten used to people's wariness of his Archivist powers, and read Martin’s alarm in his expression or posture. That was all. And his assurance that he wouldn’t ask was...good. Convenient. Nothing to worry about.

Martin still had to fight to keep his tone unconcerned as he replied.

“Jon, we’ve been over this.”

“No, we haven’t,” Jon frowned more deeply, crossing his arms. “Not really. That’s the problem.”

Martin found himself stifling a noise of frustration before it could rise in his throat. Jon had to know that he wouldn’t divulge anything willingly, and had promised not to force the information out of him. So, what, then? Was Jon just...lonely again, or something? He was sure that he had seen Basira return to the Institute, but perhaps she hadn't been in the mood to chat. Not that Jon should have had any reason to suspect that _he_ would be any more willing a conversation partner.

Nevertheless, it seemed that his only choice was to play along. To give Jon just enough of whatever it was that he wanted out of this interaction to satisfy him, convince him to get away from the damn door.

“Fine. Let’s talk. You can start by telling me what you were doing on the floor,” Martin said, gesturing to the array of tape recorders. Not that he really needed to ask. Jon passing out around the office had been a common enough sight even before—well, before everything.

Indeed, Martin had intentionally chosen the most harmless avenue of conversation readily available, and yet, to his surprise, Jon hesitated to answer.

“I was... Well. I was listening to statements.” He leaned back against the door in a way that Martin found to be just a little too nonchalant.

“What, thirty at once?”

Jon merely shrugged, mumbling something about the acoustics in his office.

 _That’s not possible._ Martin opened his mouth, but thought better of it, and closed it again. He couldn’t wade into this. Whatever _this_ was.

Unfortunately, his momentary befuddlement cost him his momentum, and Jon was quick to redirect the conversation.

“I’m more concerned about what _you’re_ doing,” he said sharply. Martin stiffened. An argument, then. So be it. He could deal with Jon’s anger—had had years to learn. It cut far less deeply than his sincerity.

“As I’ve said before, you don’t need to be,” he replied dismissively.

Jon scoffed.

“Then tell me I’m wrong, Martin. Tell me that you’re not...not throwing yourself on your sword to protect the rest of us.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. That was almost exactly what he _was_ doing, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

“Don’t be so dramatic—” he began, but Jon cut him off.

“You can’t, can you?”

“I’m not going to _die_ , if that’s what you’re asking,” Martin retorted, with rather more venom than he had intended.

Jon only sighed. He leaned back against the door frame, closing his eyes.

“No, I don’t suppose you will. But you won’t be coming back.”

There was no surprise in Jon’s reply. No curiosity, either. It occurred to Martin that at no point had Jon, normally full of questions both supernatural and mundane, actually tried to solicit more information about his situation. Their conversation thus far had practically been a rhetorical exercise. A disturbing thought occurred to him.

“You… You _know_ , don’t you? What I'm doing.”

“Not everything. Not nearly enough. I can’t, without—” Jon took a deep breath, and held it for a moment before letting it out with a huff. “Well, that’s why I’m asking you to reconsider.”

“You know that I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” said Martin impatiently.

“Yes, it does. You need to know what choice you’re making.”

“And—what?” Martin furrowed his brow, “You think I don’t?”

He couldn’t see where this conversation was going. If Jon had even a general idea of what he was doing and why he was doing it, he should understand that sacrifices had to be made. He should understand that Martin was already prepared to make them. And yet here he was, being difficult. Forcing an interaction that would more likely than not set Martin's preparations back yet again. Maybe that was the reason for all of this. Maybe Jon was throwing an obstacle at him, trying to determine whether he was actually up to the task.

His frustrated musing was interrupted as Jon spoke.

“I...heard the tape. Of you and Elias. During the Unknowing.”

_Oh god._

Martin flinched. He couldn’t help it. He was almost surprised to find that he could still feel this mortified. _Not a good sign,_ he could hear Peter Lukas saying in his mind.

Of all the reasons to accost him in the Archives in the middle of the night. Of course. Martin could feel anger rising inside him. Of course _that_ was what this was about.

Jon had heard the tape and he pitied him. Poor, stupid, hopelessly-in-love Martin, who would doubtless make a complete hash of things once again. End up sacrificing himself for nothing. Elias, Peter, Jon—not a single one of them thought that he was capable of anything beyond being manipulated, apparently. God, he was so _sick_ of being patronized.

“Right. Well, thanks, Jon, but I don’t need you to save me from myself,” he said icily, nearly biting his tongue as he clipped the syllables out. “Regardless of your opinion, I’m not going to fail, so you can take your _generous_ concern and _piss off_.”

Martin didn’t know what he had expected Jon to do in reply to that—had hardly considered what he was saying before the words were out of his mouth—but even if he’d had the opportunity to venture a guess, he could never have anticipated what happened next.

Jon laughed. He _laughed_. Martin felt like he had been slapped.

“You know what the worst part of all of this is? That that’s a reasonable assumption on your part,” Jon said, finally finding the decency to look somewhat contrite. “I never did correct the record, about you.” He looked away for a moment, perhaps seeing ghosts that Martin did not, before meeting his gaze with a grave intensity. “But no. You were always the braver of the two of us. And my _opinion_ is that you’ll _succeed_.”

... _What?_

Feeling completely wrong-footed now, Martin could only stammer in protest.

“I— You— Then,  _why—_ ”

“For the same reason I do _any_ thing, Martin,” Jon said in a tone that suggested that Martin was being very stupid indeed. For a moment, Martin felt as if he had fallen back in time, and was being lectured about the importance of note-taking after having asked for a second explanation of Gertrude Robinson's statement dating system.

And with that came another memory—the memory of the very first time he had dared ask Jon _why_. He had been similarly incensed then, come to think of it. Trapped in Archival Storage with his stubbornly skeptical boss by the unfortunately quite real contents of his nightmares. It might have been funny, if it weren’t so awful, but as it was, it had pissed him off immensely. But then Jon had said...

_Because I’m scared, Martin._

And, like a key finding its place, it all suddenly clicked. Just as it had so long ago.

“You think…” Martin said slowly, “that the Archivist could see more than enough to end this at any time, don’t you?"

It wasn’t a question. And what Jon gave wasn’t really an answer.

“I don’t think, Martin. I _know_.”

 _No_ , Martin thought frantically. He had convinced himself that there was no other way. It never even occurred to him that the choices to be made didn’t belong to him alone.

“But I don’t _want_ that,” he said quietly. Desperately.

“And I don’t want you to stop being _you_.”

“You _can't!_ ” Martin didn’t care how obvious it was that his voice caught in his throat. If his deception had ever served any purpose, the time for it was long past. And in any case, Jon ignored him.

“Elias told me once, Martin, that we very rarely know what our choices mean. But you… I thought you deserved this much.” He moved from the door, then, not even giving Martin the time to decide whether to catch his arm as he passed. On the threshold of his office, he turned back for just a moment. “If one of us isn’t coming back, I’m going to damn well make sure that it’s me.”

Then he was gone, the door to the Archivist’s office clicking shut behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! talk to me on tumblr @stopitjon


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